Sweet Joy Befall Thee
by Searlait
Summary: There were many things in her life Elsa honestly believed she would never have to take into consideration, because they would be forever a moot point as far as she was concerned. Pregnancy was one of those things.


**This story was written for NicPie, for her birthday. **

**Elsa's husband is left unnamed for future story reasons. **

**The title comes from William Blake's poem "Infant Joy."**

* * *

There were many things in her life Elsa honestly believed she would never have to take into consideration, because they would be forever a moot point as far as she was concerned. Pregnancy was one of those things.

So she paid little attention to the symptoms, at least at first. As always, she was too busy to be slowed by what appeared to be minor illness. She had only very mild nausea, some discomfort and dizziness if she stayed on her feet for too long. She hardly noticed the first cycle missed – stress and diet had always left it irregular. But she noticed the second, made a mental note to send for a physician – then promptly found herself occupied with other things, the thousand demands on her time.

It was only when her clothing began to feel abnormally tight that she really began to wonder what might be going on. By then, she was almost three months late. And she could see no obvious, physical changes – but her skirt was pulled across her hips in a way it had never been before. And perhaps she had somehow failed to notice that her corsets were getting harder to pull tight, and that they seemed more and more uncomfortable. She had always dressed herself. Now, she found herself wishing she had employed a lady's maid – someone who could reassure her, tell her it was just a normal part of aging.

Her husband was always up before dawn, working by lamplight, before he came to meet her for breakfast. She was usually awake and waiting, working herself, when he came up. But on that morning she finally faced an unwanted truth, he found her half-dressed before the mirror, in skirt and half-tied corset, feet bare and hair still a cloudy tangle, hands clasped protectively before her. When she caught sight of him in reflection, the tears finally began to fall – silent but insistent.

He was closer in a moment, not touching but _there_, close enough that she could make physical contact if she felt comfortable doing so. "Elsa?" Always the soothing tone, gentle and measured. They had played this game so many times before.

She trembled, wrapped her arms around herself, hunched. She could feel the chill seeping into her fingertips. She resisted it. The tears running down her face felt warm, so warm. "I think... something may be wrong?"

"Are you hurt?" Still calm, still measured.

She shook her head. "No. No, I think I might be... might be..." There was ice beneath her feet, slick and smooth and pleasantly cool. But it had been so long since she had felt this frightened, since she had lost control. She had been doing so _good_.

But now, she was terrified – heart pounding, unable to get her breath, head swimming and palms clammy. And she was losing her hold, her controlled calm, it – the magic, the _cold_ – coiled inside her, snaking out, looking for release. She felt it. And it only made the terror worse. Because if she was right, how much more damage might she do than she had ever done before?

She saw Anna at five, lifeless in the snow.

And for the first time, she felt real, unmistakeable nausea. She sank to her knees and clutched one arm around her middle and closed her eyes, trying to breath deeply, trying not to throw up, trying not to lose consciousness, suddenly dizzy and sick and weak. There was a thick spread of ice beneath her now, an island, and the temperature in the room had dropped noticeably.

"Elsa." He still did not touch, though he was closer now, crouching beside her. "You have to be calm. Deep breaths. You know this, my darling. Please. Deep breaths."

But they _had_ touched – of course they had. All those slow, gentle nights, the progression, his careful touching, stroking, easing her into trusting her own body, her own pleasure. Holding her when it became too much, overwhelmed her – and holding her when she was finally overwhelmed with that pleasure, crying out and clinging and afterward sobbing, relief and fear and love. They had come together in union such as she had long believed she would never experience. And he held her after, stroking and soothing her to sleep, comforted by his warmth, his smell, his voice.

They had touched in the most intimate ways – but her trust came from this. When she was upset, he let her keep her distance. Let her keep him _safe_.

"Deep breaths," he said again. "Calm. You're going to be fine. Deep breaths."

She struggled to comply. Slowly, slowly, her head stopped spinning, her heart slowed, her trembling stilled. She felt the ice beginning to melt, soaking through her skirt at her knees. She turned to him, offering silent permission.

He wrapped an arm around her, helped her to a sitting position well away from the melting ice. She didn't have the strength to dissipate it back into the air.

He had taken her hand; he stroked a finger across her knuckles, but otherwise let her be. "Will you tell me what you think is wrong?"

She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her free arm around them. "I think I... I might be..." She couldn't say the word. She could think of nothing else that would suffice. She turned silent, pleading eyes to him.

He squeezed her hand. "Expecting?"

For a moment, she just stared at him. Then she nodded. And burst into fresh tears.

This was noisier, messier crying, the kind she hated, the kind that felt so completely out of her control. She buried her face at her knees and fought it, fought it desperately. She didn't pull her hand back and he did not let go, though she knew her fingers were probably painfully cold.

"You'll be fine, Elsa," he said – and she shuddered, hearing the same words spoken almost two decades before. He had been wrong. She had not been fine. Nothing had been fine.

And now, again, she was not fine. She shook her head, her face still hidden.

"Yes, you will." Soothing, always soothing. "Elsa. My darling Elsa." His long fingers stroking hers. "We can't even know for sure. And if you _are_ – you love children. I've seen you. You're wonderful with them."

Mumbling to her knees: "I'll hurt it."

He took a deep, audible breath; let it out slowly. "I had actually considered this might happen. I've done some research. I don't think either you or any children you carry will be in any great danger from your own magic."

She lifted her head and looked at him – tentatively hopeful.

He smiled, that toothy, happy smile he couldn't force back when he was talking about his work. His hair was getting too long again – auburn curls falling almost over his eyes. "There are precedents," he said, "others born of those with magic – more often fathers, but there have been mothers. From a statistical standpoint, there appears to be no greater risk of complications than there are for anyone else. And the... the _protective_ element appears to come into play, I suspect due to the sharing of essential nature – the mother's body protects the part of her that is in the baby."

_Protects_. Elsa trembled. She wanted desperately to believe what he was saying. "What about powers? The children – do they have them?"

Now he was actually grinning, excited. "Never. I haven't found a single case."

Almost against her will, something very like relief bloomed inside her chest. She closed her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. "I never thought I could conceive."

"I was never sure, myself. Your manifestation is rather unique."

She opened her eyes and gave him a weak, teasing smile. "Always your favorite test subject."

He pulled her hand up and kissed the back of it, his lips ticklish and warm against her knuckles, bringing a pleasant little rush of comfort. "_Never_ a test subject. Only my darling Elsa. And perhaps, very soon, a wonderful mother."

"Do you..." She had to stop, voice catching, then forced herself to continue. "Do you really think I can do it? When Anna... Anna was... She was in so much pain. I don't know if I can..."

"We'll practice." He let go of her hands, opened his arms; now that she was calmer, she crawled gratefully into them. She did love him – a deep, frightening love, slow-burning, the kind she had never truly believed she would feel, as pure and true as her love for Anna. "We'll figure out a way. You'll do just fine."

She leaned against him, her arms wrapped tight. She wanted to believe him. God help her, she wanted _so badly_ to believe him.

* * *

Anna, not surprisingly, was ecstatic when they told her. Elsa was by then approaching her fifth month – finally sure it was truly a pregnancy, finally beginning to show even through the jackets she still favored. She was just too small not to show early.

She felt self-conscious about it, vulnerable. She was used to being stared at, even if she didn't like it, but this was different – not being examined as her role, as queen, but as Elsa, Elsa as a woman, Elsa as mother-to-be. She worried about what they might be thinking.

But it was different with Anna, as things were always different with Anna. Anna didn't stare any longer than it took to process what Elsa had said – then she was grabbing her, pulling her close, laughing and crying against her hair, completely and utterly overwhelmed. This kind of behavior Elsa was accustomed to – Anna hugged as frequently as others might say "hello" - but she stiffened involuntarily, uncomfortable and self-conscious, when Anna placed a hand on the just-noticeable swell of her belly.

Without thinking about it, Elsa took a step back.

Anna jerked her hand back as if scolded. She crossed her arms, bit her lip. "Sorry."

Elsa twined her own hands together, eyes wide, fighting the urge to cry. She cried at everything. Even knowing it was not an abnormal response in her current condition, it made her feel so anxious – she feared she would always associate tears with shameful losses of control. She swallowed hard, pushed the inclination back and away. "No, Anna." Forcing herself to step back towards her sister. "Please – _I'm_ sorry. I just-" But once again, as they had done so often lately, words deserted her.

But Anna was smiling – of course she was. "It's okay. I should have asked."

Elsa raised an eyebrow and only half-forced her return smile. "Yes. You should have."

"Then – can I?" A hopeful grin.

"Um... sure."

Gentler now, more tentative, Anna's warm hands spread across the fabric of her dress, pressed against the beginning of growth. Anna was still smiling, eyes wide and wondrous, awestruck. She looked down for what seemed like a long time, then up again, meeting Elsa's gaze.

"You're going to be great at this."

And now there was no chance of holding back tears, and Anna hugged her again as she sobbed helplessly and both of them pointedly ignored the ice beneath their feet. It wasn't the first time. Elsa suspected it wouldn't be the last.

It was Anna who came up with a solution for controlling the magic during labor – still Elsa's deepest fear. Her husband had suggested practice, but Anna came up with something _to_ practice.

"Do you the thing where you draw it in, and-" She pulled her arms to her chest, hands fisted, then threw them out and splayed her fingers. "That. You know what I mean."

Elsa just stared at her from across the dinner table, but her husband said, "Yes! That's _perfect_. Anna, you are a genius."

And Anna beamed, as she always did when awarded his enthusiastic praise. They had loved one another so much more quickly than Elsa loved him – or knew it, anyway. And Elsa doubted their union would have survived if this had not been the case: Anna loved him as Elsa loved Kristoff.

And he did indeed make her practice – and the practice was hard, so hard. No physical pain could be administered – she was still the queen, and some regulations were inviolate – but emotional pain could be doled out in healthy doses, and usually by Elsa herself. She carried within her head and her heart enough excruciating memories for several lifetimes.

One of the best and worst things about their marriage, Elsa thought, was that she and he and were both stubborn perfectionists in almost everything either of them chose to do. This time, of course,there was the added insistence of necessity; she forced her way onwards through practice no matter how much she struggled to tamp it down afterward, how difficult it made sleep, how much her hands shook.

And it looked as though it just might work. She got better – still had to focus and concentrate, but less effort was required. It was different when she was gathering the power from the inside rather than the outside, but she could do it: concentrate, release it all as one, dissipate away. She wished she had thought to practice this years ago.

But even in the small triumphs of learning, improving, fear remained. She found her mind returning again and again to Anna – the only childbirth she had seen was hers; the tears, the crying, the begging – and fearing that no matter how much she practiced, it would be irrelevant when she was in that much pain, and for that long. The thought terrified her.

"Even pain can be controlled," her husband insisted. "You _know_ that. You spent most of your life doing exactly that."

"Not physical pain."

So he ordered away for books – on meditation, mesmerism, medical techniques; books in French and English and German. He made copious notes and painstakingly translated passages for her – the languages in question she knew at a conversational level, but not a technical one. She read them, reread them, studied them, made notes of her own. But they were a temporary respite, never a lasting, certain reassurance.

Still, as always, study, learning, theorizing were comforts. Maybe he was thinking of that as much as he hoped they might actually help – keep her calm. Keep her grounded. Keep her focusing on something besides her fears.

The weeks and months passed, contradictory, too quickly and too slowly. She gave up corsets altogether, along with shoes with heels, jackets, anything made from wool. Her skin was uncomfortably sensitive; she always felt too warm. She had to sit even when issuing proclamations; for some reason walking was fine, but standing still left her feeling dizzy and weak. And she did walk, quite a lot and often at strange hours of the night, her mind and her legs equally restless. Sometimes, Anna heard the door and walked with her; Anna had always kept odd hours. They never spoke much, but Anna held her hand, and that was a comfort.

Elsa found herself looking in the mirror often as she got further along, amazed and nonplussed by what she saw. She knew she should be happy – her husband was right, she _did_ love children, Anna's most of all – but carrying a child herself was somethings he would have considered impossible. Would she have been more prepared for what she saw, what she felt, if she had not believed herself incapable of it? There was no way to know, but it made her feel guilty and unworthy – there was a baby within her who had never asked for a mother like this.

She should have considered this could happen. She should have taken steps to prevent it. An innocent child deserved a better mother than her. One who was not dangerous and broken. One who could focus not on herself, but on that child. Because she feared, feared so much, her own selfishness.

She looked at herself when she was alone, turning sideways, pulling up her bodice or her dress to examine that increasingly stretched, rounded skin. It looked strange, the color no longer quite uniform, striped like the cats in the barns. Sometimes, she allowed herself to rest a tentative hand against the bulge – as Anna was so wont to do – and wondered if she should feel more when she did it, some rush of love or affection.

Instead, if she felt anything, it was usually just more panic. The realization that this was not an abstract, that it was _real_, that she would soon not only experience childbirth but also then have a _baby_, a child of her own, left her feeling lightheaded.

But though ice might spread across the floor in those moments, flurries of now swirl through the air, the hand against her swollen stomach stayed as warm as her skin ever was.

She told no one, of course, about these hideously shameful feelings. She suspected plenty of people already thought – knew – that she would be a horrible mother, that she had no business inflicting herself on a child. Not even Anna seemed likely to understand; Anna had been ecstatic at her own, and now was clearly ecstatic for Elsa. She certainly wasn't going to tell her husband; his enthusiasm – and faith in her – was very clear.

Then came the day when she first felt movement. She was alone in her study, drafting letters, and at first paid little attention, assumed she was just hungry. But the bubbly little feeling was persistent, repetitive, centered. It broke through her concentration, niggling at her awareness – more and more insistent, until she could no longer ignore it. She put her pen and down and sat back in her chair.

Then it hit her – what it must be. She gasped, and her eyes dropped to the swell.

The baby was moving inside her. _Moving_.

She stared down for as long as she could feel it – there was nothing to see, of course, but she couldn't look away, couldn't seem to move at all.

That afternoon, she sought out the one person she trusted to give her an honest answer – and to neither judge her nor tell anyone else. They had, unfortunately, had to have similar conversations before, though never about Elsa.

"Kristoff?"

He was packing ledgers into boxes – his record-keeping was meticulously neat even if his penmanship was not; the former something Elsa thoroughly appreciated – but stopped at the sound of her voice, wiping dusty hands quickly on his pants before hauling a chair over the boxes so she could sit.

She did so gratefully, offering him a smile. "Thank you."

He sat on the closest box. "How're you feeling?"

"I'm... doing well. All things considered."

"Good." He waited a moment, raised his eyebrows expectantly when Elsa couldn't immediately come up with anything to say. "Is something wrong?"

She bit her lip and looked to her lap – except she no longer had much lap to look at. "I'm... I'm not sure."

"Elsa?"

How many years had it taken him to grow comfortable with using her name? As many as it had taken for her to feel she could approach him like this, as she might Anna – because in some things, Kristoff understood her in ways Anna never would. Their differences, Anna's and Kristoff's, complemented one another,and with time and trust, Elsa had come to see the value in both.

Fears she could take to neither Anna nor her husband – these she often brought to Kristoff. He was such a calming presence, solid and dependable and honest. And when Anna was herself with child, he had come to Elsa for reassurance.

All these years later, she needed to call in the favor. She tried to make herself look at him – he had such kind eyes. "I'm worried. I guess."

"About what?"

"About..." She had come to him because she knew he would accept what she had to say, without judgment, but that did not make the saying any easier. Her eyes again looked down as she gestured to her stomach. "This. About _this_."

"Ah." Now it was his turn for a lengthy silence. "Yeah. It takes some getting used to. A lot of getting used to."

"Yes. It does." She should have given more thought to what she wanted to say before she sought him out.

"Anything in particular? Because really, Anna might be-"

She looked at him, steely-eyed. "_No_. Not Anna."

He just nodded, never breaking his gaze, accepting.

"Anna would just get upset. I can't... I don't handle Anna upset well right now."

He half-smiled. "She's noticed."

Elsa felt her expression mimic his – of course Anna had noticed. She was highly attuned to Elsa's emotions at the best of times, and for the last few months, Elsa had been weeping against her shoulder on what felt like a daily basis.

"So what is it?" he asked.

She hesitated. Placed a hand over the swell, as if protecting the tiny life inside from what she was about to say – as if she had ever been able to protect anything at all. "I'm... I'm afraid..." She closed her eyes, took a shaky breath. "I have no business having a child. None at all. Arendelle has an heir. And I know... I know..." Her voice broke on a sob, and she covered her face with her hands. "I'm going to be an awful mother. And I'm so scared... so scared..."

Kristoff, in terms of personal space, was an Anna – touch, for him, was comfort. Elsa felt his hands on her shoulders, wide enough to span them completely, squeezing gently. "No way. Elsa – look at me."

How many people in the last decade and a half had given her an order? Had taken the burden of decision-making out of her hands? She sniffled, tried to get herself under control – and did as she had been told.

His eyes bore into hers, only inches away, and she had to resist the urge to pull back. "That's crazy, Elsa. Absolutely crazy. It's _nonsense_."

She did recoil then, involuntarily, startled by the vehemence in his tone. She shook her head, because she had no words.

"Look, just – just let me think for a minute. I expected this from Anna, but not from you."

"From... Anna?" But Anna had been thrilled to find out she and Kristoff were expecting – she had come running to Elsa already talking about names and nursery decorations, absolutely euphoric.

Kristoff offered that half-smile again. "Anna was terrified. She'd gotten it into her head that you needed an heir, but when she really realized that meant _we_ were going to be parents..." He shook his head, rueful.

"What about you?"

"Me?" He let go of her shoulders to rub his hands across his face. "I'm still scared I'm not cut out for this. Every single day."

"You're a wonderful father, Kristoff." And he was – of that, Elsa had no doubts.

"And you'll be a wonderful mother."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "I have evidence."

"So do I. Every day, almost everything you do is for someone else. Or did you wake up one morning and decide to be queen?"

"That's different."

"How? There are selfish parents who don't care about their kids. There are selfish kings and queens who don't care about the people in their kingdoms. You do care, though. Anybody could see that."

"One does not necessarily have anything to do with the other."

He shrugged. "It might, it might not. It's what we've got right now. Well, and – you love your family, right?"

"More than anything." She smiled, teasing: "Even you, some of the time."

"Only because you're afraid of Anna."

She laughed. "True."

* * *

There were good days and bad days as she approached the end – the inevitable, terrifying end. But she had always had good days and bad days, one extreme or the other, nothing in between. She felt strange, her body no longer her own, her mind struggling for the self control that had always been so central to her being. Pregnancy defined her every moment, impossible to forget – she couldn't sleep the way she wanted to, could neither stand nor sit for longer than a few minutes, still grew inexplicably emotional over almost nothing at all.

Lack of control – still, probably always, Elsa's greatest fear.

But sometimes – rarely, but sometimes – she could almost believe what Kristoff had said, what she knew Anna and her husband would have said as well. She _wanted_ to think she might be a good mother, wanted it desperately. She found herself looking forward to feeling those fluttery little movements. A few times, it seemed to happen when she spoke.

Alone in her room, she spoke directly to that swell, resting her hand on it – halting, hesitant, feeling rather ridiculous, uncertain what to say. And when she felt the response – strong and sure – she was very glad to be alone, because she started laughing and crying and rambling any nonsense that came into her head, just to feel the baby responding.

But then she thought of Anna outside her door, waiting all those years for a response that never came.

And Elsa knew she was selfish – so selfish.

Selfish as a mother should never be.

* * *

There were practicalities to consider – Elsa had always been good at making lists, considering options, reaching conclusions. She felt comfortable with decorating a nursery, and she had Anna's enthusiastic help. Furniture in shades of pale yellow and white, blankets folded into chests, tiny gowns and soft toys, everything carefully arranged just so. Elsa went back alone in the night, candlelight flickering off lacquered wood, and tried to convince herself of the truth of it – that her child would sleep in that bassinet, would wear these clothes. That she might be here on some not-too-distant night, much like this one, rocking slowly in that chair, soothing a baby wrapped in one of those blankets.

She left hurriedly then, pulling the door firmly shut before wrapping her free arm around herself and giving over to helpless trembling, frost climbing the walls. For a moment, it had been real.

She wasn't ready.

She was in her eighth month.

Her husband brought her books and journals, told her about his research and thoughts. She had scientific treatises on fetal development, on labor and delivery, on the first months of life – read them voraciously, enjoying them until she reached the ends and could no longer forget that this was not just abstract education.

They were going to deliver the baby alone – her and him. Despite the months of practice, despite her increased control, she still feared her reaction to that kind of prolonged pain and stress. Her husband was an expert, had read everything on the subject of magic and childbirth, and, most of all, he helped keep her calm.

She didn't want to risk hurting anyone who wasn't there voluntarily – and when was anything asked by a reigning monarch answered completely voluntarily? They would do it, just the two of them. She almost wished she was brave enough to go through it by herself. But there was that selfishness again – she couldn't do it. She knew she couldn't.

They would, of course, call for physician and midwife – the same lovely woman who had been there for Anna – to be on hand in the castle, ready to assist in the event of complications, to be available before and after the birth. And Elsa forced herself to sit through interviews and read letters of former employers in the selection of a wet nurse, of nannies. The process was not something she enjoyed, but it allowed her to reassure herself that the women they picked seemed gentle and loving, were well-qualified, and came highly recommended. She also realized then how little time her own child would actually spend with her – fears of being a horrible mother or not, the thought was a discomfiting one.

Many of her daily duties as queen she was finally forced to give over to Anna or advisors; she was always uncomfortable, and was finding concentration increasingly difficult. The smallest things set her off – her husband one morning found her weeping over her frozen desk; her pen nib had snapped, and she could not find another.

They tried to help, all of them, and she knew and appreciated it, particularly him and Anna. He rubbed away the worst of the permanent soreness in her lower back, brushed her hair each night, helping her to fall asleep. Anna came to assist with dressing – buttoning at the back, kneeling to tie boots. If Elsa thought about it too much, these things made her cry, too – because she didn't deserve it. She didn't deserve _any_ of it.

* * *

Elsa's labor began as she sat at her desk, doggedly attempting to work, early one morning in May. She had slept badly the night before, unable to get comfortable, and doing something productive finally proved preferable to tossing and turning in bed. Discomfort had been her everyday state for quite some time now – and so for quite some time, she ignored the pressure, the occasional mild cramping. She took deep breaths, tried to relax, focused on the papers before her. She was sorting – things she could still handle, things for Anna, things for her advisory council. Monotonous, soothing work.

But the discomfort grew. It finally gripped her hard enough to make her gasp, grab the arms of her chair with tight fingers, tense and straighten, almost moving off the seat. She closed her eyes and rode it out – it lasted no more than half a minute, if that, but a moan of relief passed her lips nonetheless when it ended. The unusual pressure remained, but the pain, thankfully, was gone.

She wanted desperately to dismiss it – a result of her finally falling asleep last night in a strange position, or maybe a minor illness. It could be any number of things. But her frightened mind knew exactly what it was, and would accept no excuses. She was having contractions.

The baby was coming.

She finished sorting her papers – suddenly, inexplicably, it seemed vitally important that she finish. And all the books she had read, all of the articles – all agreed that the early stages of labor were long, very long, though none of the authors could quite agree on what a woman should do during that time. So Elsa spent the beginning of "that time" trying to pretend it wasn't happening.

She had two more contractions before her work was finished. Another as she was walking down the corridor to find her husband, putting a hand to the wall to support shaky legs, closing her eyes and biting down hard on her lower lip until the pain released her. She was shaking all over. There was frost on the wall where her fingers had pressed.

For a long moment, she just stared at it, transfixed. "You can control it," she whispered, hoping to convince herself – but she didn't believe it.

She crossed her arms tightly against the little space that was left to them, and moved on quickly. She didn't want to meet anyone else in the hallways – she didn't want anyone else to know. She felt vulnerable and exposed, like they would be able to tell just by looking at her.

Her husband was in his study, as she had known he would be, several crumbly-paged books open around him and a notebook before him; he was scribbling frantically. He was dressed but had not combed back his hair, and the loose curls bouncing against his forehead made him look younger than his 39 years, almost boyish.

Would their child have hair like his? The desperate desire to better understand the workings of the world, like both its parents?

Elsa's breath hitched, and that was when he realized she was there. He looked up, blinked, clearly trying to move his mind from his books, back into the real world. When it happened, she knew – he was up in an instant, moving around the desk, closer to her, eyes wide and worried.

"Elsa, what is it? What's wrong?"

She looked down, at her arms crossed between her breasts and the huge swell of her stomach, realizing for the first time that _she_ had not taken the time to get dressed. She was still in her long nightgown, one of the ones that seemed to swallow her tiny frame whole, falling off her narrow shoulders. Her feet were bare, her hair falling in tangles to her lower back. She probably looked like a child, seeking reassurance from a nightmare.

Except this nightmare was real.

She opened her mouth to reply but the pain chose that moment to hit again, and her lips condensed around a desperate little moan. With nothing else available, she grabbed for him, and he pulled her close, so she shuddered against his chest until it was over. Then she just clung to him, desperate and afraid and fighting hard, so hard, against the chill creeping through her veins.

He stroked her hair, spoke quietly: "Shh, my darling. Shh. It's okay. You're okay."

Slowly, slowly, the shaking eased, her lungs relaxed, she could pull away before she hurt him. She clasped her hands together, protective, and looked at the floor. "I don't think I can do this." Her voice hardly more than a whisper.

"Oh, Elsa..." He did touch her then, a finger under her chin to gently left her eyes to his. "Of course you can do this. You're the strongest woman I know."

She forced a smile – wavery, but there.

"How far apart?"

"About... about a quarter hour?"

"Then we have some time yet. Would you like to go for a walk?"

She nodded, resisting the urge to cry with relief that she had still some time, time to try to get used to the idea, time to prepare herself. They went out to the courtyards – after stopping for her to put on slippers – and the morning was pleasantly cool, frost dappling fresh blooms, and his Elsa felt almost calm as they made slow circuits of the gardens, her hand on his arm. He talked quietly about the workings of the plants, of flowers and fruit, a gentle, soothing monologue in that voice she loved so much.

The contractions grew stronger, steadily closer together. She clung to him through each one, trying to keep quiet, trying to keep control. He timed them on his pocket watch, timed the length between as well.

"Less than ten minutes," he finally said, as she gulped desperate breaths and moved away from the ice beneath her feet – it would ruin the silk of her slippers, She was still in her nightgown, because what would be the point of going through the ordeal of dressing?

"We'll need to get inside and make preparations," he went on, "but before we do – can you do something for me?"

She looked at him, surprised, and nodded.

"Next time the pain comes, try what we've practiced – controlled release. Do you think you can do that?"

She squashed as well as she could the panic trying to grow in her chest. There were no words – she just nodded again, still staring at him, mute pleas for reassurance.

He smiled at her. "You're doing wonderfully, Elsa."

They walked on. He was leading them back towards the castle. She wanted to resist, to argue. She wanted to stay out here. She wanted it never to happen. She wanted it to be over.

She said nothing.

The next contraction hit so hard her legs gave out; he caught her, supported her. "Try it, Elsa." more command in his voice now – breaking though the pain. "Gather and release. You know how to do this. Gather and release."

She groaned and dug her fingers into his arms, head hanging, pain the center of her world. But when she felt the familiar tendrils of cold, seeking a way out, she seized them, focused on drawing them back. Pressure in her hands as the same eased in her stomach – and she released him to splay her fingers out, power releasing in a single, condensed mass that dissipated away almost instantly.

She collapsed against him when a desperate, relieved sob, and he pulled her close, stroking her hair again and whispering how proud he was of her.

The next couple of hours were a whirlwind of activity, and Elsa was trapped and pinned at the very center of it. They had a room prepared, near the back stairs so anything needed could be delivered quickly; a fire was built, though Elsa did not really want one, to allow water to be heated. And he asked for water, and towels, and blankets, and a knife. The physician arrived and insisted on looking her over; the midwife came after and did the same; Elsa complied silently with both, already too exhausted and overwhelmed to protest. The midwife said it would likely be mid-afternoon when the baby arrived. Elsa did her very best to thank her with a smile – she seemed to have no words left at all.

She paced the room during the blessed rare minutes when she was alone. Made herself sit when others came in – she was still the queen. She was always still the queen. And the queen must always, _always_ appear in control of a situation. Even when all control had been wrested away from her.

Finally, it was just her and him. Two large tubs of water, a kettle for heating it. The stack of towels, a smaller stack of blankets beside it. One the table by the door, the knife, a water glass, a roll of string, a roll of bandaging. In the center of the room, the bed Elsa had been trying not to look at or think about. And deep inside her, hard muscular contractions that were now coming less than ten minutes apart – by her estimate, it was probably closer to five.

"How are you?" he asked. He was kneeling near her chair, giving her space.

She swallowed hard, told herself she wouldn't cry. "Scared. I'm... I'm so scared."

He held a hand out; she took it, and he squeezed gently. "I know you are. But you're doing so well. And it will be over soon."

She nodded. She could still feel the heat of tears behind her eyes. "Can I... Can you help me up?"

"Of course."

He walked with her again, across the room and back, holding her through more contractions, gently encouraging her to gather and release, gather and release. She felt a flicker of irritation at him, more than once, but these she tamped down quickly – he was here. She wanted him here. He was only trying to help.

But the room was too hot, and her nightgown itched, and it hurt, it hurt so much, and she just wanted it over. God help her, that was all she wanted, all she would ever ask for. She wanted it to be _over_.

With the next contraction, she felt something give, and gasped as warm liquid trickled down her legs. For the first time since their time in the gardens, she lost control – ice spread beneath her feet, frost climbed the walls. She stumbled away from him – a defense; _don't hurt him_ – and crossed protective arms across her abdomen. Then she burst into tears.

He remained calm – always, so calm. She watched through her tears as he fetched a towel, approached her slowly. "It's okay, Elsa. It's really okay."

But it wasn't, and she knew it wasn't. She hunched, half-turning from him. "I can't. I can't do it, I can't, I can't, I-"

"Shh," he murmured. He knelt, lifting her gown up, cleaning her legs. She was trembling almost too hard to stand. "Elsa. My darling Elsa. Shh."

"Please..." But she didn't even know what she wanted. Except for this not to be happening. She could hurt him. Or the baby – he could be wrong. She couldn't control herself. She was going to hurt the baby.

She cried out as another contraction hit, her knees giving out; she sank to the floor and bent double, the pain making her gasp.

"Gather and release," he said.

"I _am!_" Finally snapping, but somehow that brought her back to focus, and it was almost automatic now, gather-release-dissipate. She shuddered when it was over, still bent around herself, gasping for breath, too exhausted to move.

He rubbed her back, shushed her softly until her breathing slowed almost to normal. "We need to get you to the bed, Elsa."

Mumbling to her knees, petulant: "I don't want to."

"The baby's coming soon, my darling. You don't want to be on the floor."

"It's too hot. I want to go back outside." She was whining. She didn't care.

"Elsa-"

But a commotion in the hall cut him off – frantic running footsteps, shouting and apologetic murmuring, and then the door slamming open and the whirlwind admitting herself: Anna. She looked around for a minute, then her gaze fell on Elsa, still on the floor, and her mouth fell open in clear dismay.

Elsa reacted immediately – trying to get to her feet, struggling for balance. When her husband offered a hand she grabbed it gratefully, standing to face her sister, to reassure her that everything was okay.

Anna must have run the length of the castle – she was red in the face and breathing harder than Elsa. "Nobody told me! I had meetings all morning, and nobody _told_ me. Elsa-"

But Elsa held up her hands, a silent plea for calm. "It's okay. I'm sorry. I... I didn't want to worry you." In truth, she had not given Anna a thought – more of her selfishness. She had only been thinking of herself – her own worries, not Anna's.

Anna's face softened. "Oh, Elsa – of course you didn't. But I'm here now, I'm-"

Another contraction hit, even harder and stronger now that her water had broken. Elsa turned her focus inwards, hardly hearing her own frantic gasps, concentrating again on calm, control, gather-and-release. When it was over, when she tried to straighten and smile, she found Anna staring at her, stricken.

"Oh, Elsa..." she whispered. There were tears in her eyes.

"It's alright." Forcing as normal a voice as she could manage, trying to hide her heavy breathing. "It's... It's almost over. Right?" Looking to her husband – needing so desperately for him to deal with Anna. Get her out.

Thankfully, he immediately nodded. "Right. It shouldn't be long at all."

"I want to stay."

Elsa looked back to Anna, feeling her eyes widen, the panic that gripped her heart. "No. Anna, no. You can't."

"I want to help!"

"_No_. Anna, you have to-" But then the pain had her again, pain and _pressure_, and her mouth opened on a silent scream as her hands clawed at the air, until he grabbed them, spoke over the pounding of her heart, and it was all she could do to listen, because Anna was here, she had to keep herself under control, but oh, it _hurt_-

"Elsa." He still had her hands, but he was looking down; following his gaze, she saw blood on the floor. Hers. She pulled a hand away to cover her mouth, moaning, her legs swaying, threatening to give out. "We have to get you to the bed. Right now."

She nodded, still staring at the floor, lightheaded and faintly nauseated. Anna took one arm, but she didn't have the strength to protest. She was shaking so hard that they did most of the work getting her up. Once on the bed, she turned away from them and curled, wrapping her arms around her middle. She hadn't felt the baby move all day. She didn't know if that was normal.

"Elsa?" Anna's voice, tears in it.

And at that, Elsa burst into fresh tears of her own, rolling back to face her sister, ignoring the sudden drop in temperature: "Anna, please. _Please_. I need you to go. _Now_." A contraction, and she had lost too much control already – she cried out and pulled desperately inside herself, fighting the contradictory urge to push and the pull of the magic, the need to keep it in.

"Anna." It was his voice now – the same soothing, reassuring tone Elsa knew so well. "Elsa fears... She's worried she might hurt you."

"But-"

"I know. I really do. But right now – stress only makes it more difficult. For her, and for the baby."

Anna turned pleading eyes back to the bed. "Elsa?"

Elsa forced a tremulous smile, reached out a hand for Anna to hold. "I'm sorry nobody told you. I... I didn't know. But now – Anna, you know how this feels. If I can't control it-"

"But you can."

"But if I _can't_." Irritation flared again – this was why she hadn't told Anna. Because Anna would not _listen_. She had _never_ known how to listen. "You can wait just outside, okay?" Another contraction – they were so close together now, the urge to push so strong. She was shaking again, panting, forcing the words out: "Anna, _please!_"

Anna was biting her lip. She was still holding Elsa's hand. "Right outside?"

"Right outside," Elsa agreed.

Anna smiled and squeezed her hand. "I know you can do it." And then she was gone, pulling the door shut behind her – but a few moments later, Elsa heard a scraping sound, a decisive thump: Anna pulling a chair down the hall to sit, as she had been told she could, right outside.

Elsa closed her eyes and let silent tears – pain, regret, desperation, love – flow freely down her face. _Anna_. It should have been Anna here, having another. Anna was a wonderful mother – playful and patient and kind. It should have been Anna.

Her husband gave her time to calm herself – and to get through another contraction. He gave her a towel to wipe her face, brushed sweaty bangs gently back from her forehead. "I don't think it will be long now."

It was a little over three hours.

The longest three hours Elsa had ever experienced.

The contractions came closer and closer together, more and more powerful, more painful, sending daggers through her hips, her legs, her back. She couldn't breath through them, moaned and cried and gasped desperately for air after them. He coaxed her through both. He alternated between tasks now, in his usual, methodical manner – checking her progress, warming water, wetting a towel with the water still in the tubs to gently wipe her face, her neck. And when she held out her hand, he held it, stroked her fingers, until she was ready to let go.

She first begged him to make it stop about an hour after moving to the bed. Pleaded and cried, shook, clung to him, clutched his arms. He tried to calm her. She didn't want to be calmed.

She got angry, shouted, let snow hang heavy in the air, ice climb the walls, wind and cold take rein. He only stopped her when she tried to put the fire out – she was still too warm, she was unhappy, she wanted him to suffer as she was. He had _known_ this could happen – known, and never told her.

"_Elsa_." His voice was still very controlled, but firm. "Stop. We need the fire."

"I don't. I _never_ do."

"The _baby_ does, Elsa."

Then she started to cry again, and he returned to soothing.

She couldn't get comfortable, and that upset her too. Her legs ached, her back; she rolled and adjusted , sat up and laid back down. Once, near the end, it suddenly seemed vitally important that she get up and go somewhere else – before she hurt someone. Hurt the baby. She had to go somewhere else.

He had her shoulders then, gently but firmly keeping her where she was. "No, Elsa. _No_. It's almost over, okay? Almost over."

"But I need to- please- I don't want to-"

"_Elsa. _Listen. Are you listening?"

She nodded, trying to focus, to let him bring her back.

"_You are not going to hurt anyone_. Okay?"

She nodded again, closed her eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. "Okay. Okay."

"You're almost there." Squeezing her shoulders before moving back to check her again, gentle fingers moving her knees apart. "Almost there. Next time, I need you to try pushing, okay? I think it's time."

At that, she wanted again to scream in frustration, except she didn't have the energy. It was already everything she could do to gather-and-release with each long, miserable contraction – she couldn't do anything else. She _couldn't_. Tears streaming down her face again, as she let it all overwhelm her.

But the next time the pain took hold, she pushed. She gathered, controlled, released, and she _pushed_.

And she did it again.

And again.

Her whole world focused around it, concentrated, condensed. She could feel it building to a crescendo, tearing her apart, _tearing_, and she heard herself wail as if from some great distance, her body taut and arched as she bore down desperately. The pain was absolute, unending. She felt something soft being pressed against her hands – a towel – and she clutched it, feeling it freeze and stiffen under her fingers. Her eyes were squeezed shut, black and red behind her lids, and she could hear blood pounding in her ears; her heart beating madly, lungs screaming, and below there was pain, nothing but pain, hot, burning, tearing – and she wailed again, the last air she had, the last burst of energy.

She felt something give – the pressure growing impossibly hard, and then releasing, going, sliding away. And then it was gone, the pain was gone, the pressure, and she fell back on the bed, clutching the frozen towel, sobbing in relief, in fear. She was trembling all over, her eyes closed against her tears.

There was a strange little noise from her husband – somewhere between a gasp and an attempt to speak.

And he said, "Elsa-"

Then she heard the cries begin. _Crying_.

Her eyes flew open and she pushed herself up on her elbows, exhaustion forgotten, the towel finally dropping from her hands. And then, in his splayed, bloody hands, red and wrinkled and wailing – a baby. Hers. _Hers_.

And Elsa burst into fresh tears, but she was happy, so happy, relieved and awestruck and euphoric, absolutely euphoric. She held her arms out, purely on instinct, and he laughed, told her just a minute, let's get the cord cut and get her cleaned up.

"Her?" Elsa's voice was hoarse, soft – hesitant.

"Her," he confirmed, and grinned that same impossibly sunny smile he could never fully hold back. "A beautiful little girl."

Elsa followed his every move, smiling – unable to help it – at the indignant wails of a first washing. She was tired, sore, and terrified – but none of those things seemed nearly as pressing as watching them. Her husband. Her daughter.

Her _daughter_.

He brought her over swaddled warm and quiet in a blanket, helped Elsa sit up against the pillows. And then he placed her in Elsa's arms – she felt them tuck so naturally around this tiny, perfect creature, still red-faced but silent now, trying to focus up at Elsa with blue, impossibly blue eyes.

Elsa shuddered, bit her lip. Stared into those eyes. Drank in the tiny nose, the little bow of a mouth, the tufty hair that even half-dry had a distinctly reddish tint.

"Hi," she whispered.

Her husband gently smoothed her hair back again, kissed her forehead. "You did wonderfully, darling." He stroked the baby's cheek with one finger. "Wonderfully."

"Thank you." She was still whispering. She didn't want to do anything to destroy this perfect calm.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine. I'm... I'm fine." She couldn't look at him. Couldn't look away.

He stroked her hair again. "I need to find the midwife. She'll want to make sure everything's okay. And the wet nurse, for the first feeding."

Elsa looked at him now, for the first time since taking her daughter into her arms. "First feeding?"

"They recommend it within the first hour."

"Oh." She looked down again, into those perfect eyes that seemed lock on her own. "Alright."

"Would you like a few minutes alone with her?"

"I..." She was still discomfited, for reasons she could not seem to fully grasp. "Yes. I'd like that, yes."

She could hear the smile in his voice: "How long should I make Anna wait?"

She forced a smile too, knowing he would notice if she didn't. "Five minutes. Or... or just a couple. If she can manage that long."

He chuckled and kissed her forehead again, and then was gone; Elsa could hear the murmur of voices, Anna's delighted cry – she must have been told it was a girl. Footsteps walking away. Then silence.

And Elsa was alone with her daughter.

The baby was still staring up at her, blinking and trying to focus, pursing her tiny lips.

First feeding.

Elsa bit her lip. Hers. _Her_ daughter. _Hers_.

She shifted the baby to one arm, lifted her other trembling hand up to the shoulder of her nightgown, pulled it down. Took a deep breath. Her heart was pounding. She cupped her hand beneath her breast – breathing through her mouth, eyes wide and wet – and shifted the baby again. Watched as instinct kicked in almost at once.

When Anna tentatively stuck her head around the door several minutes later, Elsa was sobbing openly, holding her nursing daughter close and warm against her chest. She smiled through her tears. "She's mine. Oh, Anna, look, she's _mine_."

Anna was grinning, still in the doorway, her own face shining, tears and delight.

_Elsa's_.

* * *

They named her Johanna, for the queen regent who had ruled until Elsa's father had come of age – Elsa and Anna's grandmother.

But Anna shook her head when they told her. "That's too much for a tiny little thing. Jenny. She's a Jenny."

And Jenny she was.

* * *

Three months later, Anna found Elsa's husband at the open door of Elsa's study, apparently transfixed. Inside, she could hear baby Jenny beginning to fuss.

"What are you doing?"

He smiled and put a finger to his lips, nodded into the room: _watch_.

Anna leaned past him in time to see Elsa put her pen down and rise from her desk, lifting Jenny carefully from the bassinet in the corner. She walked up and down the room slowly, a gentle, rolling walk, holding the baby to her shoulder with one hand, rubbing circles against her back with the other, singing a soft, lilting lullaby Anna could vaguely remember their own mother singing. Jenny's cries turned quickly to soft, hiccuping little noises, then more gradually to the contented murmurs of resumed sleep.

Elsa returned to her desk, sitting smoothly, back straight and regal. Still holding her sleeping daughter against her shoulder with one hand, she picked up her pen and resumed work with the other, as if she had never stopped.

"Whoa," Anna whispered.

"Yes. Exactly how I feel."

"Nothing that women haven't done for all eternity," Elsa countered – Anna suspected she had been fully aware they were out there the whole time. "Now out, both of you. I have work to do."

There was no wet nurse for Jenny, no nannies or maids.

She was Elsa's.


End file.
